Glossed Glory
by Ten Past Twelve
Summary: Grubbs is a hardened criminal with a stupid family. Dervish is the alleged Hero of Prophecy, and stockpiles unlikely and sometimes utterly useless weapons to this end. Bill-E is still a fat twit who's out of touch with reality. Is now officially dead. Welp.
1. School and Mysterious Poems

Glossed Glory

A Demonata Parody

()

So it begins with a roast duck

That moves on to chicken

Involves a talking nunchuck

And runs like the dickens

Foolish Lord Whatsisname sits in his web

Open and close your eyes really fast

But don't look like a retard like that

Turn in a circle while waving your arms

Make sure that your punk uncle comes to grave harm

Bullied Lord Stupidface preens his legs

When the clock strikes twenty-five

Remember how to count

It's gonna save your useless life

And help your semi-friends out

Unlucky Lord Dumbandgay is all that's left

()

"Grady," says the principal curtly. It's my eighth visit to his office this week, and it's only Tuesday. I have a seat just for me now, courtesy of the hot secretary- I'm just that good with the ladies.

"What's up now?" I ask, exuding a calm air of nonchalance. It was obviously because of the time I was caught smoking behind the bike shed. Or I was snitched on when stealing booze from the local 7-11. Or maybe when I burgled the police station. In retrospect, that last one wasn't a clever move.

"I've received a report on your schoolwork recently," he says. I roll my eyes- of all the crimes I've committed in the last week, why the inconsequential one that isn't even a real crime? "And I must say, it's quite exemplary!"

Wait. What?

"Wait. What?" I sputter aloud, confused.

"You have somehow managed to acquire three Q minuses in your electronic report, despite such a grade not existing on the online system, and every single teacher you have has agreed that you are a horrible influence on the other kids in class," amends the principal, leaning in closer. I relax, back in my element.

"So?"

"I want to know," says the principal, eyes lit with a strange glow. He's smiling eerily now. "How do you do it? How do you make all of the teachers hate you? Tell me now."

"Uh," is my eloquent reply. "I don't do my work?"

"Yes, yes," he says impatiently, "but _one_ of your teachers specifically called you a-" he rifles through his file on me, which I notice is massive and filled with red sticky notes- "'underhanded bastardising moron with no semblance of intelligence in his cholesterol-filled cranium and who plays the guitar like a two-year-old doing crystal meth'."

"Oh yeah," I smile, remembering the day. "That was because I put a bucket of high-fat margarine on top of the door so that when she came in, it fell on her head. It was the only day that I came on time to a class."

He scrawls a note inside his notebook and nods, satisfied. "Excellent. So what else do you do, besides pulling these insidious pranks?"

Getting into the swing of it, I say, "Well, once I accidentally broke the table in Design Tech with the jackhammer that I was building. The teacher's table, with all of the dangerous stuff that students can't touch inside it. He was in hospital for a couple of days, I think."

"Ooh, very nice. Anything else?"

"I think one time I sneaked into your house and glued everything that wasn't too heavy to the inside of your garage," I reminisce before I can stop myself. "Wait."

The principal suddenly goes silent, and his face turns purple. Uh-oh. He starts shaking uncontrollably, and I hear a brief whisper that rhymes with 'duck chew'. I excuse myself and run the hell away.

0

The phone rings as I enter home, but it's safe. I make it a habit to keep every phone in the house glued facedown to a metal surface, and when I have the time I like running electrical 'experiments' through them with the mains supply.

"Grubbs, get the phone," demands my father, who's sitting in the living room couch with a newspaper blocking his face and torso from view. I grunt in reply as I shrug off my schoolbag- a light camo backpack with nothing but a stolen butane torch and some pieces of flypaper inside- and pretend to answer the phone.

"Hello, Grady household. Yes, this is Grubbs. What? I've been chosen to go to the National Math Tournament? I have to leave right now?" This is all a pack of lies, of course, but Mom and Dad don't need to know _that_. I put the phone down and call into the living room, "Hey, I've been selected for this Math tournament in L.A.!"

"Really?" sneers Gret, walking down the stairs with a stained towel wrapped around her head- no doubt dying her hair again. She alone in my family knows of my affiliations with the criminal underworld of Happy Pig Town (this is actually the name of my city- no joke), and I buy her silence with regular access to cans of vodka. She doesn't seem to notice that it's actually lemon tea, poured into a glass bottle. "I guess that means that the house'll be empty for the next week, huh?"

"Whaddya mean?" I snap, confused.

"Oh, Mom and Dad and me are going to Bangkok for a business trip," she says, smirking. "Are you going to be at home, though?" she adds in a whisper.

Unsure of how to react, I reply, "Hell's yeah, dumbass."

"Don't," she says vehemently, shaking her head. "Just go rent a motel for the next couple of days- look, I'll give you the money." True to her word, she takes Dad's wallet from the kitchen counter and hands me five twenties.

"Thanks!" I grin, intent on squandering the greenbacks on some ridiculous crime that would surely end in failure rather than using it to rent a room. She didn't need to know that, of course. "I get to keep the change, right?" Best to make sure that she never finds out.

"Dude, it's Dad's money. Why would I care?"

"Good point," I grin as I pocket the dollar bills.

Our secretive transaction is interrupted by Mom bustling into the house and yelling something about the neighbour's stupid cat jumping onto her windshield. I snatch a look outside and note the blood spattering half the garage door and the silver Volvo- not a car that I've ever seen before- rammed halfway through the fence separating our lawn from the neighbours'. Whoops. As I watch, a red truck pulls up and a girl jumps out to investigate the smoking wreck.

"Edward!" she cries.

I tear myself from the blooming romance outside to listen in on the blazing row in our living room- Mom and Gret are screaming at each other about something that had happened at her school. Sniggering to myself, I amble up to my room for a couple of hours of Modern Warfare 3- one thing I'll never understand is how our parents can afford all this stuff even with Gret and I stealing from their purses and wallets from the ripe young age of five. I'm pretty sure that they bought _that_ game for me, at least- maybe I pirated online, I forget.

At my computer, however, instead of opening the game, I find myself bringing up Chrome to check out the latest police orders- a hacker friend of mine jacked me into the network a couple of weeks ago, and I've been having fun sending sergeants up to Canada for alleged 'garding' against 'trrorsts'. God those police idiots are morons for not even noticing the spelling errors.

It's nothing special- a couple of squad cars have been sent to a warehouse to crack down on some drug dealers, but that's all. As I wonder how far away this warehouse is from my nearest stash of illegal contraband, a chat window pops up on the screen, accompanied by a 'ding' sound.

LL: hey

LL: hey grubitsch

LL: wanna play a GAME?

LL: ;D

I frown at it for a couple of seconds, and then type my own intelligent reply.

IR: hell

IR: fricking

IR: no

IR: your probably a goddam sex offender or whatev

By the way, IR stands for Insane Rappah. Just so you know. Another 'ding' makes me look back at the screen- LL seems to have replied again.

LL: fair enough

LL: but, grubitsch, i must warn you...

LL: listen to your sister, and don't stay at home tonight

LL is now offline

Well, that sure is helpful. Note the heavy, heavy sarcasm there. I decide to ignore this, and instead bring up Borderlands for an afternoon of killing Skags and those stupid flying things. I hate those stupid flying things.

"Grubbs!" shouts my Mom's voice from beneath my feet. "It's dinner!"

I groan, and prepare myself for the horrors of dinnertime. You may think that I'm being overly dramatic- but trust me, you haven't had dinner with my family.

()

**Yes, I am starting a new fic. No, I cannot guarantee that I will finish it, and if I do, I might not write the appropriate sequel. But, hey, it's not impossible!**


	2. Rain and Sex Offenders

Glossed Glory

A Demonata Parody

()

"Here, pass me that duck wing," says Gret, her salad untouched.

"Nuh-uh," I reply, "Mom says not to have any meat until the greens are aaaaall finished!"

Mom growls and says, "Shut up and give her the duck."

I pout and skewer it with my fork to hand it over to Gret- but rather than pry it off with her own fork, she lunges forwards with her face and nearly rips a chunk off my hand! I emit a strangled cry and demand to know what the hell just happened. "You nearly killed me!"

"Oh, it's just one hand," simpers Gret, trying (and failing) to put on a cute face.

"Come on, Grubbs," says Mom jovially. "Be mature about it!"

Scowling, I look towards Dad's place on the table- but nope, no Dad there. He's probably still absorbed in his newspaper, even though Gret's probably replaced it with a 1970's copy of _Playboy_ again half an hour ago. Unaware of my unhappiness, Mom asks me about my Math tournament.

I jump up as if a bolt of lightning has struck me, and quickly gabble, "Oh right I need to go right now whoops I'm late!"

Before anyone can raise any objections, I'm out the front door and dry, oblivious to Mom's cry of "What about your stuff?". I decide to go along with Gret's plan, at least to start with- I know a half-decent if slightly seedy motel downtown, and they won't ask any questions other than "how many girls?". Number's probably going to be zero tonight, though, unless I get lucky on the way. I decide to spend the night there, and come back home in the morning. Hopefully by then they'll have left to wherever it was, and I can spend the rest of their trip throwing parties and drinking at the pub.

The motel room is very bland, with bare walls, bare floors and a bare bulb- the bedsheets seem a little sweaty, but it'll do. I lie down on the harsh, unforgiving mattress for a while, considering my next heist- I'm planning a real, bona fide bank robbery complete with guns on Saturday- and realise that I'm going to have to use an airgun because I have no bloody idea where to find real ones. Those things can blind, I suppose, if I aim at the right spot...

My phone rings, which is funny because I didn't have my phone when I left home- but when I check my pocket, there it is, waiting to be answered. The number is LL... I'm reminded of my short conversation with the pedophile online.

"'Sup, this is Grubbs Grady, bane of pedophiles."  
There's an uncertain silence at the other end, as if he's trying to understand by words. "What is a... pedophile?" he asks, after a couple of seconds. His voice is strangely melodious, and more than a little sad.

"You are," I quip, "So that's a bit of a hint."

I hear rustling, and when he next speaks he sounds angry. "I just checked the dictionary, and I don't like what I saw, Grubitsch."

A thought occurs to me. "Hey, are you, like one of my teachers?"

"Look," says the voice at the other end impatiently, "I just killed your entire family, I don't have to deal with this! Where are you?"

"Uh. If I... if you... um... well... I'm in Shanghai!"

"Where is that?" he demands.

"Austria. Flight 2033 at the San Francisco airport." Little does he realise that the Frisco is nine hundred hours away.

"Excellent. I await our meeting."

"Yeah, me too," I lie. What a tool.

()

After that stunning revelation, I decide to go down to McDonald's for a bite- I'm still hungry after leaving halfway through dinner. The motel clerk guy asks me if I want to borrow an umbrella as I leave, and I shrug him off.

Big mistake- it's pouring outside, and I'm soaked through in half a minute. I trudge back in and ask for an umbrella. He gives one to me, reminding me to give it back when I return. I shrug, and leave in search of food.

Twelve minutes later, I give up. In this driving rain, there's no hope of seeing _anything_, much less a bright yellow glowing curly 'M' on a red background. Once I even walked into one, but I...

"Oh for Christ's sake," I mutter out loud. I try to retrace my steps, even finding the green minivan that almost ran me over so that it could go past me again, but to no avail- this is an elusive McDonald's. In the end, I just head into a 7-11 and steal a chicken sandwich to sate my gnawing hunger. I'm just about to sink my teeth into the delicious, tender bread when a man wearing a dark orange hoodie walks up to me. He has a hood over his head- it looks like a garbage bag.

"You're supposed to take the wrapper off," he says. "Don't worry, I used to make that mistake a lot as well.

I start, and realise that I have forgotten to unwrap my sandwich. "Nice save, garbage bag head guy!"

"How- how do you he stutters, caught off-guard for some reason. "How do you know that it's a garbage bag?"

"Uh, dude, what else could it be? Some fail executioner hood thing?" Alarm bells start ringing in my head- I've heard this voice before. Maybe it's guy from school?

Apparently he thinks the same thing, because the next things he says is, "Hey, do I know you?"

"I think you might, actually," I admit. "Who are you?"

He pulls off his garbage bag, revealing a horrifying face. It looks like lumpy pink dough, and cuts ribbon over it- whenever he moves, more wounds open, but he doesn't seem to mind. "Whoa."

"My name," he intones, "is Lord Loss. Who are you?"

I suddenly realise that he's the LL guy who just said that he killed my family. "But I sent you to Shanghai!" I cry, then clap my hands over my mouth.

"What? Are _you_ Grubitsch?" Lord Loss roars angrily, and six weird bulges appear beneath his jacket. Moments later, there's this giant ripping sound and I see why- he's got eight arms, like a spider or that cliché Spiderman villain guy. "That was a nasty trick you tried to play on me! This Austria place is far from San Francisco." I briefly wonder how an idiot like him ever managed to kill _anybody_, but he grabs me by the throat before anything else can happen.

"Good thing that Vein thought to track you down by scent first, although if I hadn't met you here, the rain would've washed away your scent completely." Stupid rain. Stupid 7-11. Stupid stomach. "And now I'll kill you, the last surviving member of the Grady clan."

I try to make a witty retort to throw into his face, but my speech is curtailed by the bony finger in the middle of my throat. "Ghrrk gllp."

"Prepare to d He's interrupted by a metal baton, spinning through the air in a terrifying blur of chrome and silver. It smashes into his butt-ugly skull, and I swear I hear his bones break. He releases me, and I drop to the floor, gasping for breath.

"Hey, Lord Loser!" calls a loud voice that for some reason reminds me of Dad's, except infinitely cooler. "You forgot to count me!"

Lord Whatsisname rises from the ground- and I mean _rises_. He's hovering almost twelve feet off the street now, high enough that he's above the lightbulbs. A pained snarl tears from his lips, and he swivels to face his new aggressor. "You!"

"Yeah!" shouts a greying man five or six feet away from me, on the asphalt of the road. He doesn't need to fear a car running over him- no-one's going to be driving in _this_ weather at _this_ time of night- and he's swinging a pair of aluminium baseball bats linked by a length of chain over his head. "Remember when we graffiti'd your stupid castle with pictures of dicks and our names?"

"It took years for the paint to get out," sighs Lord Whatsisname mournfully.

"And remember when we punched you in the face to save the baby?" the man ploughs on.

"'The baby' was one of my demonic familiars, you fool."

Having regained some ability to speak, I immediately join in the fray. "Must have been a pretty ugly baby if it was workin' for _you_!" The man laughs and agrees, while the monster scowls.

"Why am I still trading insults?" he says to us. "I just killed _your_ family He gestures to me with one of his arms"and _your_ brother!" He indicates the man.

"Quadruple homicide?" I gasp, jaw dropping.

The old man nods grimly. "Oh, he has a bit of a track record for this kind of thing." He hurls his baseball-bat-chain-thing at the hovering monster, knocking him from the sky. "So you're going down, Loser!"

Clutching his stomach- which is where one of the baseball bats struck, by the way- the eight-armed freak hisses like a cat and gestures imperiously at me with two of his mangled arms. Controlled by some unseen force, my arms and legs jerkily begin to move themselves towards the monster, taking me with them. "The hell?"

"Dervish Grady!" he howls, and I'm caught by surprise. Who'd have thought that the old man would have the same last name as me? "I will kill everyone you love, so help me Ss Akc'uf, Demon Overlord of Death!"

"Let the kid go," demands the man- Dervish- his face and voice hard.

"Look here, mortal," deadpans Lord Whatsisname as he snakes an arm around my throat again. "I am, in human vernacular, best described as 'the biggest douche alive'. What makes you think that I'll be any different this time?"

"I. Have. A nunchuck."

"Demonic-cow crap," hisses the monster.

Cocking an eyebrow, he raises his arm- another baseball-bat-chain-thing dangles from his wrist, glinting in the light from the lamp-post.

"That hardly counts," says Lord Whatsisname, although his tone is whiny. "I don't even- that's not- is that even Japanese?"

"I am the goddamn hero of the prophecy, and you are going DOWN!" Dervish leaps into the air- far higher than anyone I've seen jump before- and swings the nunchuck around the top of an advertisement for Victoria's Secret. He performs an acrobatic fricking pirouette to propel himself even further, and he lands on top of the monster, breaking his grip on me and conveniently knocking me into a shelf in the 7-11. The shopkeeper complains about how _he's_ going to have to deal with that, and launches into a full-on tirade condemning my foul actions as I watch the fight, entranced.

Lord Loser's thrown Dervish into a window in the opposite side of the street, and has used this respite to pluck a lamp-post from the sidewalk- despite his spindly arms, he carries it like a toothpick. Dervish leaps from the wreckage of the shop, tears a pair of knickers from the back of his shirt, and flings a pair of metal coins at his foe. Before I can call him an idiot for not pocketing them, however, they suddenly mutate into human-sized blocks of lava and Lord Loser is engulfed in flame. I haven't learnt from my mistake, though, and cheer loudly- but then the blob of lava ripples, and it explodes spectacularly. A clod of lava makes its way into the 7-11, hitting the still-ranting shopkeeper in the nuts. I chuckle, and turn back to the battle.

Loser shrouds himself in a strange flickering glow that extends to his improvised weapon, and uses the streetlight to easily sweep Dervish off his feet. Pressing his advantage, he forges onwards, the lamp-post slowly morphing into some kind of sword. A word in some other language'kfptphkng', I think- leaves the fallen Dervish's mouth, and suddenly a swarm of women's undergarments tumbles out of the store behind him and blasts Loser with full force. Dervish leaps to his feet and rushes over to me.

"Quick, get into the employee's room!"

"The door's locked," I warn him. "I could pick it, given time, but-"  
"No time," he says tersely, "but not to worry." With another mysterious word, to fast for me to fathom, he gestures at the door. It bulges in the middle, and then explodes, showering us with wood and paint flakes. The groaning storekeeper, lying on the floor, mutters something about hooligan vandals.

"Cool."

We bundle into the room and find a staircase leading upstairs, probably to the storage room- without hesitating, Dervish barrels up it and wordlessly beckons me up as well. Just as I clear the last step, he waves his hand one last time, and this time the air above the staircase solidifies into concrete, blocking all access.

I can't ask him how this is going to stop a magical eight-armed guy who can carry twelve-foot-tall metal poles with ease- he falls asleep almost as soon as I open my mouth.

()

QUACK QUACK QU-

"Argh what the hell is going on?" I demand, eyes snapping open and adrenaline flooding my system.

The man from last night jumps and screams in fright. "Ow- heart-"

"Oh, uh, sorry," I mutter apologetically. "I just heard this quacking-"

"That was me!" he says brightly, immediately shifting in demeanour from a rattled old man to a punkass kid who likes playing pranks. "Great alarm clock, huh?"

"I hate you," I say tonelessly.

"It's a little telepathic spell," he grins, totally unashamed.

Remembering last night's events, I say, "So that was magic you did last night?"

"Yeah- but I didn't expect you to hear the music from our horizontal tango!"

I shake my head in a silent rejection of his terrible joke. "Can you turn another coin into lava?" I ask, fishing for a dollar in my pockets.

"No, no, no," he says firmly, shaking the head. "I'd love to, but there's not enough magic in the air for that."

My initial reaction is "umwhut" without any capitals, punctuation or regard to normal spelling conventions whatsoever. I don't actually say that, of course, but you can imagine my beautiful face contorting into an expression of confusion, right?

Seeing this, he says, "Well, Grubitsch, I-"

"How do you know my name?" I demand.

"I guessed. After Lord Loss said that he'd killed your family and my brother, I remembered that he had a son who was as ginger as the-"

"If this is going to turn into a joke about my hair, I will punch you," I threatened.

He raises his arms placatingly and changes tack. "Alright, alright, so you're Cal's son."

"And you're his brother? My uncle?"

"Yep," he says, thumping me on the back good-naturedly. I was going to talk about how Dad had never talked about him with us, but then I realised that Dad never talked with us about anything except to tell me to get the phone. Yeah, even when he caught me painting the school hamster purple in third grade, all he did was say "I don't think that's a good idea.". Not even a proper telling-off.

"Cool," I say. "Where are we? Why didn't Lord Whatsisname kill us in our sleep?"

"Simple demonomagicals, my young friend! Lord Loss doesn't belong in this universe- he comes from another realm entirely. The only way he can enter here is by using a transdemonical hole, or 'window', between universes, which saturates the area in magic and lets him enter without imploding from magiclessness. Windows can only last for so long, though- soon they collapse back into photomagicons and disperse. Lord Loss was on borrowed temporological magical ions when he started tracking you."

"Are any of those real words?"

"Of course!" cries Dervish, affronted. "The study of magicodemonism is a highly specialised field! It's split into four areas- transdemonicology, alternamagicology, biodemonology and- the most important- necrodemonismology. Those areas are then split into several subsections- transdemonicology is divided into photomagicology, the study of photomagicons, and nebuparticology, or the study of nebuloparticles. Alternamagicology is three part- temporologics, demonoshiftology and realmomagicology. It deals with..."

()

**You'll be pleased to hear that none of those 'areas of magicodemonism' are, in fact, real words at all. Sorry for the low of funny here, just need to get some plot things out. **


	3. Delusions and Warped Minds

Glossed Glory

A Demonata Parody

()

I've been in Carcery Vale for exactly one week, and it's hell. School's out there, and the only kid my age is this pudgy freak called Billy. He's not even a nerd, just horrible at everything and an avid believe in werewolves. Doesn't he know that _demons_ is where it's at?

Unfortunately, Dervish doesn't either- he refuses to teach me any magic. I've stopped asking him why, because every time I do, he launches into this heavy analysis of the demono-thingies and alternablobbymabibs. We spend our days playing Pokémon Ice, a game that Dervish coded himself. Naturally, the plot involves horrifying demons running around and eating your Bulbasaurs.

"I hate Pokémon now," I groan as my little guy is eaten by some flesh-eating monkey _again_. "I mean, before it was alright, but now every time I take a step, whoah! Stupid demon up my-"

I'm interrupted by the front door exploding. Dervish throws down his laptop and grabs a knife made entirely of cheese from the wall- for some reason the guy has an obsession with collecting weapons that look nonlethal but are actually horrifically dangerous. I think that the knife of cheese is just for kicks, though. For my part, I run out of the room to hide in the woods.

"Hello, Grubbs!" calls Billy cheerfully, dropping from a tree onto my back.

"GAH!" I scream, collapsing onto the leafy floor and attempting to roll free of his tenacious grasp. "Get off me, you ass!"

Billy frowns and obeys, brushing himself off and acting as if he hadn't just tried to kill me. "I'm _sorry_, Grubbs."

"Billy, why do you even follow me?"

"My name's Bill-_E_. With an 'E'."

"How can you even tell?" I demand. "Who the hell are you?"

"Why do you ask?" he whines.

I punch him in the face and tell him, "_That's_ why."

"Oooooow! That hurt, you meanie!"

"So did getting pounced on like a goddamn tiny rodent!" I snarl, backhanding him again. Without warning, a clawed, scaly hand shoots from a nearby tree and grabs him by the neck. Moments later, he's gone, dragged into the tree.

I stand around kind of awkwardly for a couple of minutes, wondering what to say. I settle with nothing, and turn to leave.

"Wait," rasps a voice from the same tree that grabbed Billy, "don't you want to save your little friend."

"Uh," I say, confused. "What friend?"

"The git gnawing on my centidemonic earlobe."

"You mean Douchey? I mean Billy?"

A muffled voice from the tree trunk asks, "Wait, I'm not douchey!"

"Yes, yes, that little dork- ow!"

"Did he bite?"

"Ow ow ow oh my demon god!" the rasping voice cries to no-one in general. This is followed by a horrible tearing sound and a little girl's scream. When the voice next speaks, it seems calmer- it looks like Billy's stopped biting, "Okay look I kind of need to clean that disgusting human blood from the floor, so stop by tomorrow, yeah?"

"Uh, yeah," I say, without the slightest intention of doing anything of the sort. Screw Billy, I'm going to play Pokémon Ice or Minecraft or something for all of tomorrow.

"Got a phone? I have, I can call you to remind you if you want."

"How about, er, 'walrus'."

The voice pauses for a few seconds. "That's quite hard to type with nothing but numbers," it muses.

"Well, my friends always do it, so yeah," I lie shamelessly. "Bye!"

Stupid voice.

()

_BILL-E CAM_

_The sun was shining brightly on King Bill-E's Sovereignity of Carcery Vale. Birds sang in emerald-leafed trees, happy puppies frolicked through meadowy fields, and nice snowmen danced with children in designated snow zones._

Yes_, thought Bill-E as he lay in the grass and inhaled the scent of daisies, _this is paradise_._

_Commotion at the other end of his nature park made him lift his majestic head to see what was happening- his new friend Grubinty Grados, known to his closest friends as simply 'Grubbs'. Bill-E had been trying to convince him to change his name to Grubb-E, to cement their growing friendship and make it something almost tangible. Alas, he was unreceptive to the idea, but Bill-E strove onwards._

_Anyway, this is getting off-topic. Bill-E saw Grubbs running into the Quibble Forest, home to the friendly Quibble tribes and the Bim-Bim Wolf. He decided that it would be a great laugh for the Quibbles if he played a little joke on Grubbs, and clambered with his lightning agility up the closest tree to enact his daring plan. In no time at all, he located Grubbs and prepared to initiate the cleverly named 'Fall from tree onto Grubbs' plan. As soon as his loyal subject stopped running, Bill-E fell, in no way accidentally at all. Twisting his arms around Grubbs' stocky frame, he giggled aloud with his friend and the two rolled around playfully like happy dogs on the floor for a while._

"_Hey, Billy," said Grubbs, "why are you so cool?"_

"_My name's Bill-_E_," the young king reminded his friend. "With an 'E'."_

"_No, really- what's your secret?"_

_Bill-E was a little put-upon by the interrogation, so staved off a reply by saying, "Why do you ask?"_

_Grubbs jokingly tapped him on the nose, saying "That's why."_

"_Oooooow," said Bill-E, continuing the game. "That hurt, you meanie!"_

"_Sorry!" cringed Grubbs, "Did it really?" Bill-E shook his head, laughing at his friend's stupidity, and the two had a bit of a pretend fight after that. It was stopped short, however, by a surprising attack by an unknown assailant! He was pulled backwards by a hand and somehow transported to a dark cave that smelt like a tree._

"_Oh gosh!" cried Bill-E. "What's happening?"_

"_Ssh," said his attacker. "It's me, the Bim-Bim Wolf!"_

_Bill-E looked upwards and, sure enough, the friendly face of the Bim-Bim Wolf smiled down at him. "Phewph," he said. "I thought it might be a bad person."_

"_Don't be silly- there's no badness in the Sovereignity now that _you're_ in charge," said the Bim-Bim Wolf fondly. He held out a plate of frosted cupcakes, each one with a smiling face etched into the icing. "Have one- Mummy just made this batch!"_

_Bill-E grinned and took the biggest one, munching on it softly. "Wow, this is delicious!" he shouted, voice muffled by the cupcake. He definitely didn't hear anything about 'Douchey' or anything. He bit down extra hard the next time though, for no reason._

"_Do you want to watch a movie?" asked the Bim-Bim Wolf. "Me and the Turbitty-Burbles are going to check out Back to The Future VII!"_

"_Oh, I've already seen that," said Bill-E loftily. "I might act in Back to The Future VIII, though!"_

"_Wow," said the Bim-Bim Wolf admiringly._

_The two great friends..._

()

**DERVISH CAM**

**You pull your trusty cheese-cutting knife made of cheese from the wall behind you, ready to face anything. Grubbs immediately runs to get a better weapon than the ones in the room, bless his soul- but you have more important things to deal with.**

"**BLARG BLARG CHUBLE!" cries the enemy- a terrifying apparition with the form of a five-year-old boy. Oh wait it's just that stupid Billy kid.**

"**What do you want?" you demand.**

"**BLARGLE BLOM!" he answers, raising the stainless steel steak knife that you've just noticed that he's holding.**

"**Well crap," you say. It's a little known fact, but the fact is that your cheese-cutting knife made of cheese is useless for anything but cutting cheese. Fortunately, before today all you've needed to use it on are rogue lumps of Swiss and Danish Blue- but it looks like your luck's run out. You wonder when Grubbs is going to get back with the Baseball-chuck, and it never occurs to you that he might have done the none-brain-dead action and fled. "Don't make me kill you," you say to Bill-E; while it is most certainly a bluff, you're sure that the guy doesn't have enough brainpower to power a ten-watt light bulb for more than half a second.**

**Sure enough, he stops short of crossing the threshold and instead mumbles, "Flarpy bom bom."**

"**What are you talking about?" You're not sure you like what you're going to hear.**

"**CHARGA CHIMBO! OH C'TIBBS!" he cries.**

"**No, speak in goddamn English instead of, what, Austrian?"**

"**BEELY BEELY PROM!" He's getting agitated, and the steak knife starts twitching. "TREEBO!"**

**You wonder if he just tried to say his name, and try to figure out the trigger word. "Austrian? English? Goddamn?"**

"**TRIBOLO NOBBLES!"**

"**The hell?"**

"**BOPPITY BIM BIM!"**

**You give up and heft the sofa up with a single hand. Ordinarily, this would be impossible- there are no transdemonical holes in the cosmomagical realm nearby- but this is a really cheap sofa. You're pretty sure that it has a plastic frame or something, that's how light it is. Impressed by this display of 'strength', Billy starts up a frenzied dance and spouts some more inscrutable gibberish. You give up on the formalities and throw it at him, making a satisfying _crunch_.**

"**That's the stalker finally done with," you nod. "Where's Grubbs, I wonder... did he get lost on the way?"**

)

GRUBBS CAM

I attempt to find my way home. That dumbass Billy must have slammed my head against a wall or something though, because I fail. The fifth time I pass this little cave in a cliff face, I give it up as a bad job and decide to call Dervish up to get home. I plonk myself down a rock and search my pockets.

For some reason, my phone isn't there. I'm absolutely sure I'd had it my pockets when I was running to flee from Dervish's home, because I'd been using it to research Pokémon type matchups online- Dervish didn't have any wi-fi at his dump. Now that I think about it, the type matchup site was totally useless any way- Dervish had only programmed one type, and that was 'demon' type. It was supereffective against all of my Pokémon, and all of the demons were immune to it. Yeah, that was a stupid, stupid game. I briefly wonder how I even managed to win any battles, and then I recall that I didn't.

Back to the story- so my phone had magically teleported through time and space to a location that was _not_ my pocket, and as such was stupid.

Stupid phone.

Stupid stupid stupid phone.

"Hey there, Grubbs," says a voice behind me, which is strange because I'm sitting in front of a rock- but when I spin around, I see that I'm no longer in the woods, and no longer in front of the rock.

"What. The hell." There's no-one there either.

"Can you guess where we are?" The voice is from beneath my feet this time. I look down immediately, and see that I'm hovering about ten feet in the air. As soon as I realise this, of course, I plummet to the ground and hurt my legs.

"Jesus, Grubbs," teases the voice, "You suck at this."

Thirty-six degrees on my right- I turn swiftly, and end up in a desert- the skies are dark, even though it was still midday when I'd first run into the forest.

"The hell is going on?"

)

**Any ideas to answer Grubbs' question? Or are you just as horribly confused? Don't worry, this isn't retarded parody crap, this is an actual plot element that actually came up last chapter. I'm serious.**


	4. Demons and Focus Shifts

Glossed Glory

A Demonata Parody

()

This is so ridiculous, Lordy

_Yeah-man-what-are-you-even-thinking_

**Werewolves are so outdated, DEMONS are where it's at**

thisissooutrageous

WHAT DO YOU EVEN THINK THAT YOU'RE DOING

"You total dumbass, Loser."

**ii _2hould_ 2ympathii2e but thii2 ii2 2ome 2eriiou2ly 2tupiid 2tuff**

**You are not even going to do it stop trying**

_Do-you-want-me-to-cut-off-your-demonnet-access_

"Look, guys!" cries the eight-armed demon lord. "This human claims that he's the hero of prophecy!

DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY PEOPLE SAY THAT

**the 2ame amount ii2 totally dead by the way**

"But shouldn't we help contribute to that figure by killing this guy too?"

Your voodoo mathematics are not going to change our minds

**Just kill him if you really want to, you unbearable tool**

_Just-leave-us-out-of-this_

WHAT A DUMBASS

**ii'm goiing, thii2 ii2 2o 2tupid**

_Me-too_

Yeah so am I

GOOD LUCK, RETARD

**You'll need it**

)

"This official meeting of the High Court of His Honourable Sorrow King, Lord Loss, has commenced! My newly instated secretary Artery is taking minutes, and will be for every meeting hereafter unless otherwise stated."

"I'd just like to say for the record that this is utterly moronic," drawls Quibble Dontarné, demon hunter and self-professed Hero of Prophecy.

"Now then, Quibble, mind your manners at my horrible, spidery castle of DOOM!" chides Lord Loss, waggling a damaged finger.

"Doesn't it hurt to have all of your, um, bones exposed like that?" asks the third sentient member at the meeting, Logym'gg (The Accursed Psychic Destroyer Of Worlds).

Lord Loss nods sadly. "Exquisitely."  
"Why do you do it then, you dumbass?"

"Well-"

"Oh wait I just answered my own question: you're a dumbass!" Logym'gg lets out a brief snigger at this, instantly killing his nearest bodyguard with the high psychic content of the sound.

"If this is going to turn into one of those 'hate-on-Lord-Loser' parties like at demon college," says Lord Loss imperiously, rising from his cobwebby throne, "I shall take my leave."

"This is your castle," points out Quibble. "But if you want us to deface it like your roommate at demon college must have, by all means!"

"Silence!" commands Lord Loss, gesturing with all four of his left arms at the demon hunter. A set of spider legs made of pure shadow shoots out from the back of his seat and pins Quibble's arms to his sides. "Now the tables are on you!"

"Actually, the chair is."  
Lord Loss punches his psychic monster guest in the face.

"You- you punched me!" cries Logym'gg, aghast. He brings an eldritch tentacle of crystallised death to his face. "I think I'm- I'm _bleeding_!" Sure enough, an incandescent orange liquid drips from a small cut on his face. When it hits the spiderweb floor, it hisses and a cloud of steam curls into the air.

"Look here, you little pansy," snarls Lord Loss. "I may be bullied by every other demon lord worth his salt in existence, but you're not even really a demon lord at _all_."

"How- how did you know?"

"What kind of little pussy cries about wounds like that? You see this?" He holds up his lacerated flesh to one of his guest's multiple globulon-eyes. "I RAMMED MY HAND INTO A DEMON-GODDAMN PILE OF ROCKS FOR THE DEMON EQUIVALENT OF CENTURIES IN THIS SPIDERY HELLHOLE. I AM SO USED TO PAIN, I FEEL EMPTY WITHOUT IT."

Quibble taps him on the shoulder, free of his bonds. "You might not feel pain that way _we_ do," he grins, assuming a kung-fu stance, "But I will snap your flimsy demon neck like a frickin' twig."

Lord Loss lashes out with a single arm and somehow manages to grab both of his foe's flimsy human arms with it. With as little fanfare, he gives a single mighty pull and flings the demon hunter over his blood-oozing shoulder at Logym'gg's tentacled face.

"My bones! My weak normally-redundant skeletal frame is crumbling beneath this great weight of fifty-two human kilograms!"

"Shut up and get your agonising nightmare tendrils of death away from my goddamn back!"

"My demonic bloodgusher!"

Lord Loss nods, approving. His murderous scheme successful, without a single flaw. Although he would have preferred it if his days at demon college had come up. And how had Quibble known about that one time when that hussy H'zon'ko and her gang of terrifying fiends from the Outer Realm broke in and glued everything that wasn't too heavy to the inside of his organic-spider-mobile's garage?

)

**DERVISH CAM**

"**Well, this is a little strange," you observe calmly.**

**Okay actually you stuck about three curse words in there and maybe one or two hysterical cries of fear, but that's the bare bones of it.**

"**You don't say." You whirl around in surprise, ready to-**

**THE DERVISH CAM HAS ENCOUNTERED TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES THAT APPEAR TO STEM FROM A CHANCE MEETING WITH AN ELDRITCH ABOMINATION WITH A NAME SPEAKABLE ONLY WITH SIX ETERNALLY SCREAMING MOUTHS AND THE TASTE OF HORROR FRESH UPON YOUR EYES.**

**HOWEVER, YOU MAY REMAIN CALM, EVERYTHING IS ALRIGHT. SERIOUSLY.**

"**AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRGGGHHH!" you scream. The mindbendingly alien monster-**

**I REPEAT, EVERYTHING. IS. ALL. RIGHT.**

**GO AWAY.**

)

**Why so many cliffhangers? Why did we see Lord Loss and that douche Quibble? Will we ever learn? Why all these rhetorical questions that only I can answer anyway? Tune in some time in the relatively near future to find out!**


	5. Foreigners and Plot Threads

Glossed Glory

A Demonata Parody

()

"So let me get this straight. You're a talking nunchuck."

"Yes," confirms the floating wooden staff.

"And you're magical."

"Not _just_ magical," corrects the nunchuck, "I'm _demono_magical."

I rub my forehead to ward off the approaching migraine. "Of course. Right. How could have I forgotten."

"You forgot the question mark at the end of that sentence," my conversational partner chips in.

"Yes, I did," I say emotionlessly. "Of course."

"Is that sarcasm I detect?" says the nunchuck sharply.

"Yes," I say sarcastically. It whacks me over the head. "Ow, what was that for?"

"I can't _stand_ sarcasm," the talking weapon says cooly.

I consider this for point five of a second. "You can't stand either." I'm whacked over the head again for my troubles.

"Look, Grady, we need to get serious here."

"I think all these whacks on the head are going to make me forget what serious means," I complain loudly.

"I hear that a second thump often rectifies that," replies the nunchuck innocently.

"Right, seriousity. All in the bag."

"Is that a word?"

I nod quickly. "So is transdemonicological, or so I hear."

"Cease this gay banter," orders the nunchuck. "I need something from you."

"What?" I ask warily. How is talking about nonexistent words gay?

"I want you to..."

I mean, they're just words. The only gay words are 'gay' and 'homosexual', I mean seriously. Oh, and I suppose 'queen', when I think about it. And I hear that 'flaming' has some kind of euphemistic relation to it as well. Lesbian is as well, I just remembered, and dike too, and-

"Are you even listening?" demands the nunchuck. When I nod dumbly, he asks me what he just said.

"Uh. You. Made the... um. Your plan was... uh..."

"I am going to break your neck if you spend another paragraph thinking about synonyms for 'gay', alright? Is that fair?"

"It wasn't just synonyms!" I shout, outraged. "There's only one anyway, it's homo-"

"Do you like your neck?"

"Yes," I gulp.

"Would it be bad for me to break it?"  
"Yes."

"Will you shut the hell up now?"

"Uh-"

"Say. Yes."

"Yessir," I say immediately, in fear for my life. I hate nunchucks.

"Alright. Now listen up, you useless tool. We're right now in what that idiot Dervish would call a transtemporodemonic alternabubble in the demonofabric of cosmologicality. More accurately, it's a time bubble, stretched around the area of Carcery Vale, in which time and space have been temporarily destabilized. Are you following so far?"

"The what in the what now?"

The nunchuck somehow manages a sigh and attempts to simplify. "Carcery Vale has been turned into a maze, but the walls aren't made of stone or steel- they're made of time and space."

"Uh," I say, still not quite grasping the concept. Is it talking about time travel?

"Okay, suppose I take a step forwards. In the normal world, I would just move a metre or so forwards in space, and maybe a second forwards in time. Here in Carcery Vale, though- I might take a step forwards and end up in Africa on the back of a goddamn dinosaur."

"Ah, so every step I take will teleport me somewhere?"  
"Yes, but that's only part of it. Every second we spend here, we run the risk of further teleportation. Every metre we travel here, you run the risk of just randomly having your heart torn from your chests and deposited on the face of a crying three-year-old in Peru. Or even Sweden."

"Uh."

"And there's more- the reason that I'm telling a brainless arse like you all this information is that I need to find something."

"Which is what?"

"I'm looking for the boy. Billy."

I make a confused noise. "The hell? What's _he_ got to do with anything?"

"Oh, you'll understand soon enough," it says vaguely.

I shake my head, disgusted, and before I know what's happening, the world is falling away.

()

Some tiny village in France or something- wherever it is, I can't understand a word they're saying.

"Nac ouy pleh em odomes nedrag?" asks one of them.

"Get lost," I scream in his face. "I need my personal space!" I run for the hills, and only make it halfway before I have to stop to catch my breath. I have a stitch in my side, and it sends piercing pain up my side every time I inhale. To solve this problem, I stop inhaling.

()

"Si ehyako?" I'm roused from my slumber by one of the French people.

"GO AWAY!" I holler. "I DON'T LIKE FRENCH PEOPLE ANYMORE!" I vault out of my bed like a freaking Olympic athlete, aiming for the window. Kicking a French nurse out of my way, I swing my fist around and catch the window a glancing blow- nevertheless, it shatters and the shards of glass fall out onto the street below, slicing into the skin of a street cleaner. With his weird, backwards screams of pain as a smokescreen, I jump out of the freshly broken window, aiming for the street cleaner to cushion my fall.

"Y'M ECAF!" screams the street cleaner, a sure sign that I've made my target. Rolling off his prone form, I dash down the pavement to avoid any approaching police officers. Another cunning Grady escape, seamlessly enacted by none other than the best. Houdini, put down your stupid chains and handcuffs, you're dealing with a pro escapologist here.

I'm so wrapped up in my incredible success that I trip over a badly placed wall.

Well, actually it's more like I run into it full tilt. "Argh! Stupid wall!"

"Ha," laughs a strange voice. "First time I've seen anyone run at those speeds into a wall. If you'd been any less thick, you might have gotten hurt!"

My head injury is such that I ignore this jibe in favour of falling unconscious.

()

"Mih niaga?" asks a man through the fog of slumber.

"Seh deniartser," says another, "t'nod y'rrow."

I snap awake and immediately attempt to flee again. But when I lurch upwards to reach my window, a crushing grip appears around my throat. Shocked, I fall back, and my neck is released. I try again, but the hand closes back on me, seemingly intent on throttling me to death. "RELEASE ME- GHRK I drop back to the floor, gasping for air. Looking around, I attempt to locate my merciless attacker- there's no-one there but a weak, pasty-looking nurse and an even weaker, pastier-looking doctor. They seem oddly familiar, and the nurse has an arm cast. Weird. I turn my gaze to my chest- perhaps some monstrously strong munchkin is there?

"Oh. A chain," I observe. So much for the munchkin theory.

"Seh ekawa!" titters the nurse, as if she hadn't noticed my violent escape episode. "Stel nigeb eht lufniap noitarepo!" The doctor grins wickedly and holds up a giant syringe filled with some green liquid.

"That's anaesthetic, right?" I ask weakly.

He cocks his head and says, almost soothingly, "Ti si nehw ouy kn'iht tuoba ti."

()

After a drug-addled bout of madness that I'd rather not get into, I find myself back in Carcery Vale with a blond wig, a wallet stuffed with matchsticks, twelve Cathay Pacific plane ticket stubs and a single Mexican peso in my pocket. You will never learn why.

"Oh, it's you," says a snide voice behind me. "I'd thought that your heart was in Ecuador while the rest of you was in Auckland."

"I've never heard of these ridiculous places," I snort. "If you want to freak me out, at least give me some names I'd know!"

The nunchuck pauses in its taunting, unsure. Ha, round one to Grady! "Okay, look, I have no time for this stupidity. I've found Billy, but-"

"You have? Let's go, I-"

"I only said I _found_ him," it says testily.

"I know. I thought you only needed to find him anyway. Are you saying that you _want_ him to _come_ with _you_?"

The nunchuck clucks audibly. "By no means- it is merely that I _must_ bring him with me."

"Wow, your life sucks," I grin. "Well, b-"

Seven seconds after I make my bid for freedom, I'm unceremoniously deposited on the ground with my arm bent at a really painful angle. "Why am I still conscious, this crippling pain should have knocked me out until tomorrow morning."

"Magic," says the nunchuck angrily. "It looks like a second window has been opened."

"I can't feel a draught," I mumble groggily, rising to my feet. The nunchuck thwacks itself against my other arm, and I fall back onto the floor.

"I mean a transdemonical tear in the magicfabrical alternality field!"

"A what in that where?"

"A portal between worlds," says the nunchuck resignedly.

In complete understanding, I nod. "Ooooh." A second later, I say quizzically, "What worlds?"

The nunchuck smacks me upside the head and winds itself around my neck. "Just do what I say, you brain-dead lump of fatty tissue."

()

So this is the situation, as explained by an asshole of a nunchuck with an inclination towards violence of the blunt sort. Lord Loss (yeah, _that_ guy) has somehow managed to psychically distort the already-existing timespace distortion bubble even further, creating a little room in the very centre. This little room is somewhere in Delwish's house, and both Dweebish and Bella have been captured by the demons (who are where it's at). A platoon of the Lord's familiars defends the house from exterior assault, but have neglected to account for underground attack, which is how the nunchuck got in the first time. Before it could free Bobby, however, it was caught by Lord Logs and narrowly avoided being fed to a crocodile-headed dog by hitting everyone on the head and flying away.

"Wait, are you sure his name is Benty?" I ask. "I seem to remember him telling me it was Bill-E. With an 'E'."

"Oh my god," cries the nunchuck, "You know exactly who I'm talking about, so who gives a-"

0

**Sorry, but this fic has just been terminated.**

**No joke, I'm afraid. From hereon, there shalt be no updates for this fic. Sucks, huh?**


End file.
